


outside the door nobody knows

by patrick_hotstetter



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Burnplay, Cigarettes, Death Threats, Desert, Dubious Consent, Gay Richie Tozier, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, Home Invasion, M/M, Object Insertion, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Restraints, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Spit Kink, Stalking, Threats of Violence, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23973574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrick_hotstetter/pseuds/patrick_hotstetter
Summary: Richie is 37 years old when he meets Patrick Hockstetter for the second time.Or, Richie knows Patrick is up to no good, and he's going to prove it. Eventually.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	1. You can lean on my arm/As you break my heart

**Author's Note:**

> This work deals with sensitive topics including dubious consent, non-consent, murder, and extreme violations of privacy, on top of the tags listed above. Tags will be added as each new chapter is posted, including character tags. Chapters containing non-con will have an explicit warning in the chapter notes. Please tread carefully.

Richie is 37 years old when he meets Patrick Hockstetter for the second time. 

He doesn’t recognize him at first, standing outside after one of his shows. To Richie, he just looks like any man, hair cropped short to his scalp and hands tucked into his pockets. He’s dressed differently than most of his fans are, wearing trashed jeans and a holey t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Usually his fans wear hoodies and cargo shorts. 

His people corral the fans into a line for him to meet and greet on his way out after an honestly mediocre show in a town back East. His jokes land, but they aren’t his and he doesn’t care about them. Something about the East Coast makes him antsy too. Regardless, he smiles with his fans and poses for sweaty pictures and shakes hands. 

This man, the one who looks so out of place, has a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a tattoo on his neck. Richie can’t tell what it is from the doorway. He can’t stop staring. The guy isn’t his type, inasmuch as he lets himself have one. He’s tall and lean, in his late thirties, early forties, and he is losing his hair. He has a severe widow’s peak. Richie can’t judge, he’s losing his hair too. 

They make eye contact and Richie blanches. His skin goes cold and the hair on the back of his neck stands at attention. The man smirks at him, eyes dark, and cants his hips forward, hands still in his pockets, waiting for his turn in line. 

Richie watches his progression out of the corner of his eye. He isn’t the last person in line, but there aren’t many people still around. A small handful of fans, a bouncer from the venue, and his manager, Steve, on the phone. Then this guy. This guy who looks like he definitely sells drugs to teenagers in Rite Aid parking lots. His skin is crawling. 

There is a heavy and pointed silence when they’re face-to-face. Usually a fan gives Richie something to work with, talks first and so fast. When they don’t, Richie smiles and says, ‘Hey,’ and does what he can to make them comfortable. They are his bread, his butter, the way he makes his living. This guy just looks at him with those dark eyes and pulls his hands out of his pocket. One holds a lighter and the other reaches for the cigarette behind his ear. He tucks it in between his chapped lips. Richie licks his and swallows hard, watching this strange man light up. He inhales and exhales out of his nose, smoke going everywhere. Smoke in Richie’s face. 

“‘Sup, flamer,” the guy says, and Richie blinks. Someone in line behind him coughs. From the smoke or the slur, who can say.

“Patrick,” he breathes.

Patrick quirks his lips but doesn’t smile. He raises his hand with the cigarette up to his forehead and gives Richie a lazy salute. “Got it in one,” he says. 

Richie is frozen, like his blood has been replaced with cement. Up close, Patrick’s neck tattoo is a red balloon, which makes him want to piss himself with fear for reasons he doesn’t want to look at too hard. His toes curl in his shoes. He can’t look at him anymore. 

“Well,” he clears his throat and smiles brightly. “It was great to see you, man! Thanks for coming out!” 

He’s too enthusiastic, smiles too large, and it catches Steve’s attention. He tells whoever he’s on the phone with, “Hold on,” and glances over. He looks concerned and Patrick smirks again, blows smoke in their direction. Steve wrinkles his nose. 

“Yeah, good to see you too,” Patrick says. He ashes his cigarette, tapping it off over Richie’s expensive sneakers.

“Time for you to go!” Steve tucks his phone against his shoulder and motions for the bouncer, who finally finally finally steps forward. 

“See you around, Trashmouth,” Patrick promises, and it sends a shiver up Richie’s spine. His fingers feel numb. They feel broken. He hears bones creaking in his ears. 

“We’re done here,” Steve calls out to the remaining fans. He has a hand on Richie’s shoulder and pulls him back toward the employees only entrance to the venue. 

Richie can’t hear anything, can’t see more than a foot past his face. He presses his hands to his eyes under his glasses and bites his tongue to keep from hurling all over the floor. He remembers being 13 and wishing, wishing so hard, that Patrick would stop looking at him. He remembers being 16 and wishing, wishing so hard that he would never stop. He followed Richie around town, on his bike, then in his car. He did this until Richie and his family moved away his senior year. Patrick had long since dropped out, but there he was, loitering outside with whatever deadbeat lackeys he pulled into his orbit after Henry went away for killing Victor and Belch. 

His head feels fit to burst, memories screaming in his ears. He presses harder against his eyes. 

“Old friend?” Steve asks, quietly. His tone is neutral, but Richie’s known him for so long, dated him on and off for nearly a decade, and he knows Steve is worried. Steve worries over him a lot. He gives Steve a lot to worry about. 

Richie shakes his head, but has to stop. He’s so nauseous. He almost jumps out of his skin when Steve touches his wrists, pulling his hands down off his face. He doesn’t hold them, but he squeezes them, reassuring. They’re still in public, in a public space, with venue employees and their own people milling around, doing their jobs. 

“Bully,” Richie answers. It doesn’t feel right though. Patrick was so much more than that. He isn’t a bully. Belch was a bully. Patrick is… Richie is surprised he isn’t in jail. 

“Okay,” Steve says, and goes back to his phone call long enough to end it. He puts his phone in his shirt pocket and turns his full attention to Richie. “I need a full name and any aliases you know about. I’ll add him to the block list. Does he know anything he shouldn’t, Rich?” 

Richie doesn’t answer him. He’s staring at the wall over Steve’s head. It isn’t hard, he’s shorter than Richie. He feels sick to his stomach. 

“Rich!” Steve snaps his fingers in Richie’s face. He blinks and looks down. Steve’s eyes are large and brown and his lashes beat against his cheeks with every nervous blink. 

“Yeah?” He’s stupid, his brain is full of cotton and buzzes with white noise and static. 

“Does he know anything he shouldn’t,” he asks again, making pointed eye contact. Richie shakes his head. 

“Not… for sure,” he says. “Nothing he can prove.” 

Steve nods. He’s pulling out his phone again, swiping it open and scrolling through his contacts. “Good,” he tells Richie. “That’s good. I’ll take care of this, don’t worry.” 

Richie can hear the phone ringing and before anyone picks up Steve touches his shoulder with his other hand and says, seriously, “You’re good.” 

They aren’t dating anymore, haven’t for most of the last year, but he knows the things that settle him down. He doesn't just forget them because they aren’t bumping uglies anymore, as much as Richie wishes he did. He frowns at him, patting him on the back in return. 

“That’s what your mom said last night,” he says, equally as serious. He’s still shaky, and he hates that he feels better now. 

He goes to sit in his dressing room to wait for Steve to be done. They are supposed to head back to the hotel together, and Richie can’t imagine leaving on his own right now. He uses his time waiting for Steve to look Patrick up on the internet. 

His name is unique enough that he isn’t hard to find. He’s been arrested a few times, in Maine, then a few more times in New Hampshire, in Florida, in Nevada, in Connecticut. They’re mostly drug related, three times for domestic violence, and one time for possession of a deadly weapon. 

Something in his chest curls in on itself and then yawns wide open.

Richie closes the tab and deletes his history. 

He taps his lips with the edge of his phone and closes his eyes. If he’s lucky, he’ll never see him again. 

**

Richie Tozier is not a lucky man. 

That night, in his hotel room, there’s a knock at his door. He doesn’t bother to check the peephole. He’s been big and strong for so long, it never occurred to him, even with the hubbub of the day. 

He opens the door with little fanfare and comes face to face, again, with Patrick. 

“Surprise,” he says. There’s another unlit cigarette behind his ear and when he smiles, there’s a space where one of his teeth used to be near the back of his mouth. Richie’s father would be disappointed in him, but he can’t remember what it’s called. His hand on the doorknob tightens until he hears it groan in protest. 

“You’re so fucking rude, Tozier, aren’t you going to let me in?” Patrick asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer, just shoulders past him and into the room. Richie watches him assess the room, take in the three and a half empty beers on the side table, the plate his dinner had been on next to the TV. There’s a bucket of ice Steve had brought in for him with the last two beers from his six-pack chilling. Patrick snags one and opens it with a ring on the middle finger of his right hand. The cap lands on the floor. 

“Sure, just come on in,” Richie says, brittle. He leans on the open door for support. 

Patrick laughs, slamming himself down in a nearby chair, elbow on the table. He’s looking at Richie with those eyes again and tells him, “Do what you want. It’s up to you if you want anyone walking by to hear what I’ve got to say.” 

He’s got a point, Richie finds himself thinking, and closes the door. He both wishes and doesn’t wish that Steve was here. Steve should not have to deal with Patrick. No one should have to deal with Patrick. Richie just wishes he weren’t alone. He crosses his arms over his chest. Patrick licks his lips. 

“I saw you on the TV last time I was in county lock up,” Patrick says. He sips at Richie’s beer. “I don’t have one, so it was just pure dumbfuck luck that I saw the ad for your show.” 

“And you, what? Wanted to come remind me of all the times you made me piss my pants in terror?” Richie asks, incredulous. He’s so nervous. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a smile. “I missed you.” 

Richie doesn’t know what to say to that. The muscles in his stomach clench. 

“Come here,” Patrick instructs, beaconing him with the wave of his hand. Richie does as he’s told, wishes he knew how not to. He talks a lot of shit, kicks up a fuss, but he does what he’s told. 

“You’re such a fucking weird dude, Hockstetter.” He stops an arm’s length away, dropping his hands down by his sides. He doesn’t want to do this. Patrick is going to kill him. He’s going to die. He’s famous and he’s still going to die. He doesn’t know why he’s so sure of it, but he is. Will there be a hashtag? Will someone tell his parents? Steve is his only friend, will he have to identify his body?

If he’s ever found.

“I forgot about you,” Patrick says, like Richie hadn’t said anything at all. “Until I saw you on TV. Then I still didn’t really remember you until I saw you. Why?” 

Richie shrugs. He doesn’t know. He wishes he did. His intense aversion to Jared Leto in that one teen drama makes sense now that he remembers Hockstetter as a young man. Long hair, mean face. So much flannel. 

“What happened to your hair?” Richie asks, because he’d liked it long. It was nice. He’d hated himself for noticing it. 

“What, dipshit, in the 20 years since we last saw each other?” Patrick sets the beer down on the table and smooths both hands over the sides of his head. Richie can hear the bristles scraping over the sound of his shallow breathing. “I’ve had a few fucking haircuts since then.” 

He sits with his shoulders relaxed, feet planted on the floor, knees spread wide. He looks good, lean but tall. He’s shorter than Richie, he thinks, but he fills up so much more space. His arms in that shirt are a clear and obvious threat. Everything about him is a clear and obvious threat, even the casual way he watches Richie take him in. 

God, his mouth waters. 

“Are you going to come here, or am I going to have to make you?” Patrick asks, tapping his fingers on the table. He doesn’t sound annoyed, he sounds sure, like he knows the answer already. Confident. 

The thing in Richie’s chest is sharp and stabs him in his lungs, scaring the breath out of him. 

He walks closer, until he’s in the V of Patrick’s legs. He looks at him like, ‘Happy now?’ Hockstetter shakes his head and points to the floor. Richie drops like a sack of potatoes, like he isn’t almost forty with the knees to match. 

“See, isn’t this better?” Patrick asks, but it isn’t a question. His face is hard. This could be a soft moment, hot and warm and good, but instead it’s like drinking gasoline. 

“I looked you up,” Richie says, because he can’t stop himself. 

“Not everything on the internet is true.” Patrick says, voice sweet like rotting fruit. He leans forward and slaps a hand to Richie’s face, ring catching on his cheekbone. He leaves his fingers, burning hot against Richie’s clammy skin, thumb dipping down under his bottom lip and pushing. 

“Oh yeah?” Richie asks. It comes out wetter than he wants it to. 

“Yeah,” Hockstetter shifts his hand on Richie’s face until he’s holding open his jaw. “Sometimes, it’s worse.” 

He shoves his thumbs into either side of Richie’s mouth and pulls, stretching his lips until they ache. He groans even though it isn’t sexy. It hurts and it isn’t sexy at all. Patrick laughs and digs his fingers into hinges of his jaw. He says, “Smile for me, funny man.” 

Richie’s eyes water. Patrick blurs around the edges, and that scares him. He reaches his hands up to wipe away the tears, but Hockstetter tuts. He pulls one of his hands away from Richie’s face and uses it to slap at his hands. 

“Okay, Jesus,” Richie curses, dropping his hands back down. Patrick removes his other hand and Richie can feel them still on his face, in his mouth. 

Patrick leans forward and kisses him. It’s mostly teeth, hard nips at Richie’s already hurting lips. He whimpers. It hurts. Patrick laughs again and tells him to open his mouth, stick out his tongue, and he does. 

Richie feels stupid, on his knees with his tongue out. His hands are in his lap and he doesn’t want to be hard but he is. His fingers curl up into claws on his leg. Patrick touches his tongue with his fingers and they taste like old tobacco. His nails are a little long and they drag down over his taste buds. He can’t believe he isn’t bleeding. 

“Keep it open,” he says, and plucks the cigarette out from behind his ear. This is a no smoking room, but he isn’t about to tell that to Patrick. He uses the same lighter from after the show to light it, the filter stuck between his lips.

He blows out that first mouthful into Richie’s face directly, and it stings his eyes behind his glasses. He blinks hard and long and the tears in the corners of his eyes fall down his cheeks. With a smirk, Patrick leans back in his seat. He looks around the room, locates the remote, and turns on the TV. He flips through the channels before he lands on the news, turning the volume up. 

They’re talking about a murder. Richie’s ear prick up, but he doesn’t turn his head. 

Patrick takes a drag of his cigarette. 

“--the man was found in his home by friends. The police currently have no leads,” the anchor person says with regret. Richie looks at Patrick and his face is unreadable. He blows smoke up at the ceiling. 

He reaches his arm out and ashes his cigarette in Richie’s mouth. 

“Keep it open,” Patrick warns him. Richie’s neck burns. He shifts, cock dragging inside of his jeans. He does it again. 

He shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be letting Patrick do this. He isn’t an ashtray, he’s a person, and he wants to suck him off, maybe, he doesn’t want to be doing this. He keeps his mouth open, waiting, his hand resting over his hard cock without urgency. 

Patrick watches TV and Richie watches Patrick. They don’t talk. It’s like Richie isn’t even there. He keeps his mouth open and only flinches when Patrick’s cigarette drops burning cinders on his tongue instead of ashes. Saliva collects on his tongue, spilling out down his chin. 

When his cigarette is finished, sucked down to the filter, Patrick looks at it, then at Richie, and says, “Take off your shirt.” He taps his own knee and clarifies, “Swallow that load, then take off your shirt.” 

Richie is so glad he gets to close his aching mouth, jaw shouting, that he doesn’t think. He swallows and doesn’t think. He doesn’t think, just takes off his shirt. He takes off his shirt and screams when Patrick puts his cigarette out on his shoulders. 

“Fuck!” He yells, curling forward and falling to the floor in surprise. 

Patrick shushes him, flicking the fresh burn with his fingers. Richie bites back on another scream, mouth falling open. He drools on the floor, on the carpet, scratchy on his face. Richie watches Patrick toss the butt on the table next to his beer through new tears. His shoulder feels like it’s on fire. Maybe because it was just on fire. 

“Baby,” Patrick admonishes, leaning back in the chair again. He puts his feet up on Richie’s prone body, crossed at the ankle, digging into his side. It’s nothing compared to the pain in his shoulder, snaking up his neck and into his jaw. He tastes ash and exhales out through his nose, hard. Sharp. 

“Fuck,” Richie hisses and Patrick laughs, kicking him. He closes his eyes and fuck. The news is still playing in the background. They’re talking about the weather now. It’s going to rain tomorrow. 

Richie can’t breathe. There are boots next to his spine.

Patrick uncrosses his legs and uses those boots to turn him over, belly unprotected. Richie’s cock is straining against his zipper and it hurts too. He doesn’t mean to, but he humps at nothing, at the air, in time with the throb of his shoulder. 

Grabbing his beer, Patrick stands and moves until he’s straddling Richie’s head, looking down at him. He seems so huge like this. Hockstetter rubs the front of his jeans, over Richie’s body. He nudges his head with his shoe and tells him, “I wanted to do this when we were kids.”

“What stopped you?” He asks, feeling the burn on his shoulder rub against the carpet. It sings to him, a bright light impossible to ignore. He doesn’t know if Patrick wants audience participation or not, but that’s what they say right? That you’re supposed to keep them talking, right? 

“Timing wasn’t right,” Patrick replies, drowning the rest of his stolen beer and tossing the empty over his shoulder. Richie can hear it bounce off the single, king size bed and fall to the floor. He risks looking up, through his smudged glasses. Patrick’s got his head tilted, like Richie is a bug under a magnifying glass. He’s still touching himself through his pants. His eyes are heavy lidded.

Richie remembers the last time he stood staring up at the night sky, how small he felt in the vastness of the universe, how connected to the air with the breeze ruffling his hair. He looks into Patrick’s dark eyes and it’s the opposite. Patrick’s gaze makes him feel small, but that’s where the comparisons stop. He’s alienated, drifting out to sea in the pitch black. He reaches a hand out before he can stop himself. 

Hockstetter doesn’t haul him up, he doesn’t touch him. He looks at the hand and walks away, lifting his leg up and over Richie’s body. He saunters over to the ice bucket and grabs the last beer. He opens it the same as before, with the ring on his finger. He angles the bottle towards Richie and grins when the cap pops and bounces off of his face. 

Scrunching his nose, Riche rubs where the cap hit him on the forehead, sharp edge first. Patrick drinks and Richie watches his throat work. His neck is long and slender, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

Patrick drinks the entire beer, but doesn’t swallow the last mouthful. Instead he purses his lips and spits it at Richie, still laying on the floor, like they’re kids splashing around in a pool. Something they never did together. 

The stream is steady and hits him in the face, spraying his glasses. Beer slides down his cheeks, down his neck. He sits up and it spreads, gets tangled in his chest hair, rolls down and polls at the waist of his jeans. It feels cool against his hurting face and makes his pants damp and uncomfortable. Richie shifts, touches his cock through his jeans. 

Patrick looks around the room, bottle hanging loosely from his fingers. Richie licks his lips, tasting beer and spit, and watches him. A shiver runs down the back of his neck, swings around his middle and pools in his groin.

“Get over here,” Patrick demands. He’s looking at Richie and pointing to the floor in front of him. It’s the second time he’s done that, and Richie feels like a dog or a little kid who’s in trouble. It makes his stomach sour. It makes his dick pulse under his hand. 

He starts to stand, hand on his knee, but Patrick kicks a foot out to stop him, his boot colliding with Richie’s shoulder. He grunts, but Patrick ignores him. “Crawl,” he says and Richie does. 

He shuffles over on his hands and knees, the burgundy carpet rough under his palms. He sits back on his calves and doesn’t wipe his face because Patrick doesn’t seem to want him to, if his reluctance towards Richie wiping his own tears is any indication. He’s bare chested and self conscious about the hair on his body, the softness of his middle. He remembers years of purple nurples from Hockstetter, of tit flips and dick punches, violent touches designed to draw attention to his body’s imperfections. 

Those childhood cruelties got progressively more and more hands-on and aggressive the older they got, until Patrick finally aged out of that kind of touching. Until he wasn’t a boy anymore and he beat the shit out of Richie instead. His hands still lingered, a punch to his gut accompanied by some plausibly deniable fondling. Richie’s breath catches in his throat and he tilts his face up, up to Patrick. He doesn’t know what he expects, what Patrick wants from him, but an almost reverent caress of his jaw isn’t it. 

Hockstetter strokes his face, thumb scraping against his stubble. Richie closes his eyes and tilts his face into Patrick’s hand. This is nice, after the fingers in his mouth, after the ashes and the burns, after the boots on his body. It’s nice, and Richie savors the moment, breathing in the smell of tobacco. 

Patrick turns Richie’s face gentle like, thumbs pressing on his lips. He says, “Here, open your mouth.” 

Richie’s eyes snap open and so does his jaw. Patrick smiles down at him and, even though his hands are soft, his mouth looks like broken glass.

Lifting his beer bottle, Hockstetter holds it by the belly. He shoves the neck between Richie’s parted lips. It smashes against his teeth, so he opens his mouth as wide as it’ll go and works his lips. It’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt, necessarily. Doesn’t hurt, but the slip, slide of the glass feels strange on his tongue, the saliva building up between his teeth spills out of his mouth and runs down his chin. 

The hand on his jaw tightens and shifts until he’s pushing Richie’s head back. It’s still soft, still gentle, but his head is tipped back far enough he feels a strain on the front of his throat, pulling the skin over his Adam’s apple taught and hard. 

Time seems to stop, the noise from the TV fading until the only thing Richie can hear is the buzzing in the space between his ears. With his fingernails digging into Richie’s face, Patrick adjusts his grip on the bottle. He shoves it in, rim hitting the back of Richie’s throat. 

He doesn’t choke, at first. Patrick furrows his brows and bends both of their bodies, curling around Richie’s head and forcing the glass neck as far as it’ll go without breaking against his teeth. Those same teeth push hard against the inside of his lips and he’s afraid of tearing the skin, so he opens his throat as much as he can. The bottle hits his uvula, slams into it. He’s going to throw up. He’s going to, he won’t be able to stop himself. 

Patrick pulls out, just a little, before jamming it back in. There’s no finesse, no rhyme or rhythm. Every time the bottle hits the back of his throat, Richie’s stomach lerchs, muscles spasming. He gags, he chokes, he sputters. His throat clenches. Richie brings his hands up to push at Patrick, to push him away, but they land on the front of his jeans and he can feel how hard the other man is. He groans, rubbing at Patrick’s cock and swallowing around the bottle. He wants it out of his throat.

Thinking quick, Richie tugs at Patrick’s belt, picking at the buckle with shaking fingers. He waits for Patrick to pull out before reaching into his pants to touch his cock. It has the desired effect. Patrick keens in the back of his throat and rips the bottle out of his mouth. 

Richie coughs, sucking in a lung full of air. His chest is on fire. 

There isn’t time to think, there isn’t time to process. Patrick hauls him close by his hair and bats his hands away. Richie, still sputtering, feels Patrick’s cock smack against the tears on his cheek, knocking his glasses halfway off his face. He doesn’t have the chance to right them before there’s a dick in his mouth, hard and skin sliding over his tongue. He doesn’t mean to, but he moans, eyes squeezing shut. 

“You love this,” Patrick pants, both hands clutching at Richie’s face, pursing his lips around his cock. He brushes those hands back into his hair and clenches his fist, pulling pulling pulling until Richie cries out. Patrick takes that as a cue to pull his head into his groin, Richie’s nose pressing into the skin over Patrick’s dick. Pubic hair scratching his lips, his throat flutters against the cock rutting inside, trying in vain to push it out. He gags. 

Patrick pulls out suddenly, and Richie gasps. Bile rises in his throat but he swallows it down, acidic and burning. 

Richie adjusts his glasses, breathing heavily. He looks up at Patrick and his chest is heaving, hand pumping his own cock fast and hard. He’s still fully clothed, the waist of his pants snug under his balls. 

This has not been, exactly, a blow job. Richie was getting his face fucked. He’s dizzy from it, blinking away black spots and trying to steady his breathing, wiping his chin and getting smacked in the mouth for his troubles. 

“Are you stupid? Stop that,” Patrick says, like he’s scolding a child. Richie puts his hands down, rests them on his thighs and wants to use them to rub his cock, but he doesn’t know if it’s okay. The pockets of Hockstetter’s jeans are gaping open at this angle and inside he can see a knife, folded in on itself, black handle glinting off the overhead light, and a dark blue bandana. 

The sight of the knife, his cock, the dangerous look of Patrick’s arms in a shirt that used to have shirt sleeves but no longer does, makes Richie salvate. He grabs at Patrick’s hips and tries to tug him closer, to get his mouth back on that cock. He doesn’t feel like getting skullfucked again, twice was enough for one night, and he hopes if he can show Hockstetter how good he is with his mouth, maybe they can be done shoving things down his throat like that. 

He kisses the head of Patrick’s cock, touching his fingers to the other man’s mid-jerk. He looks up at him, saying with his eyes while his mouth is busy that he can do this, he can be whatever Patrick wants him to be. Like he’s been burnt, Patrick takes his hand off his dick. Through Richie’s filthy lenses he looks like an impressionist painting of an angry man. 

Richie moans, the noise starting somewhere under his ribs and rolling up his throat and falling out over his fingers, wrapped around Patrick’s cock. He gathers the saliva from every corner of his mouth and drools on him, on himself, covering them both in his spit, letting it rope from his lips to the other man’s cock. 

He glances up and the Patrick shaped smudge through his glasses has his head thrown back. Richie feels hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his bare skin. Miraculously, Patick keeps his hips steady while Richie moves up and down his shaft at his own pace. What he can’t fit comfortably in his mouth, he jerks with his hand, the empty one rubbing at Patrick’s balls. Richie runs his tongue along the vein under Patrick’s cock, swirling around the head, bobbing his head. Under him, over him, Hockstetter keens and Richie can see his stomach muscles jumping under his shirt. 

“Fuck, you’re such a slut, you know that?” Patrick asks, and Richie blinks up at him and hums around his cock. The hand on his shoulder pushes him off and Richie finds himself staring up at Patrick again with a fist in his hair. He says, “I asked you a question,” and then he spits in Richie’s face. 

It lands on his mouth, and at this point, he knows better than to clean it off. He swallows around a lump in his throat and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Say it, say you’re a slut.” Patrick’s voice is rough, it’s fucked. His breathing is heavy and his fingers in his hair curl until Richie is sure he’s pulling it out completely. It burns, like his throat burns. Like his face burns. 

“I’m a slut,” Richie says. 

Hockstetter pulls him back in by that fist in his hair and Richie opens his mouth. Patrick feeds his cock back in, and Richie wraps his lips around his teeth. His thrusts are shallow, and Richie hollows out his cheeks, does what he can to make his mouth tight and wet, working his tongue. It was nice to make Patrick feel good on his own, but this is good too. So good to let Patrick use his mouth to take what he wants. Good enough to forgive the cock, the bottle, jammed down his throat before. 

Mind reeling, Richie leans into Patrick. The TV is still going in the background, but he can’t hear it. His whole world is this cock in his mouth, the feeling of Patrick’s hands on his body. The smell of him, the heaviness of his eyes on Richie’s skin, lingering, thinking. Richie wishes he knew what the other man is thinking. He knows he couldn’t take it. He grabs onto Hockstetter’s pant legs, gripping the fabric and not his legs. 

His jaw is hurting again, aching. He’s trying something different with the wiggle of his tongue on the underside of Patrick’s cockhead when he feels him move his hand across his shoulders. He doesn’t think anything of it, isn’t really paying attention, so focused on doing a good job, that he doesn’t notice Patrick about to press on the cigarette burn with his fingers, his fingernails, until it’s happening. They dig in and Richie sees white hot behind his eyelids. 

Patrick takes the opportunity, takes Richie opening his mouth wide in mid-shout, as an opportunity to shove himself in further, wedge his cock as far back as it will go for the second time. He presses harder into the burn and moans, the sound vibrating out of him. Richie feels like he’s lying next to a moving train, like he’s laying down on the ground next to the tracks while it screams past his face. If he moves the wrong way, he’ll die, crushed to death by something bigger than himself. 

Patrick pulls out, pushes Richie away. On his back, Richie looks up at Hockstetter. He’s pumping his own cock again, staring at him curled in on himself. Richie has an arm wrapped across his body, hand rubbing gingerly at the skin around his burn, trying to ease some of the pain. It helps, but not enough. He can feel the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

“I’m a slut,” Richie says, using the hand not alleviating the pressure on his burn to touch his cock through his pants. He thinks it’s something Patrick wants to hear, so he’s going to say it. He says it like it’s the truth, an absolute fact of nature. Richie Tozier is a slut. He’s not one, really, not anymore. He feels it in his chest though, feels it crack open and pull on his ribs. It opens him up enough for someone else to crawl inside. 

Patrick smirks before he comes all over him. He comes with thick stripes over Richie’s neck, over his wrist, over his chin. On his glasses. 

“Fuck, you sure are,” Patrick pants. He pulls his pants back up over his dick, fully dressed again while Richie lays on the floor, hard, burnt, covered in spit and sweat and come and beer. He strokes his fingers over the fly of his jeans and feels frantic in a way he’s afraid to be, like there are Pop Rocks fizzing under his skin. 

“You want to come?” Patrick asks, mocking. He steps over Richie and picks his soft-pack of cigarettes up off the table in the corner. He shuffles one out and taps it, filter down, against the table, before sticking it in his mouth. 

“I asked you a question,” he says around the filter, lighting it with his Bic. 

“The fuck does it look like,” Richie says. His cock is obscene against his pants. He continues, voice trembling, “It’s not going to suck itself.” 

Patrick nods, sucking in a lung full of smoke and exhaling through his nose. “Come on,” He says, stepping over Richie again. He grabs a fist full of Richie’s hair, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and drags him up. Richie scrambles to stand, scalp burning. Assuming he doesn’t die for this nut, he should probably check that he still has hair at all. 

Patrick leads him into the bathroom and Richie has flashes of memory, old episodes of Law & Order, and thinks that if Patrick wants to clean Richie’s body of evidence, this would be the way to do it. The only thing keeping his overwhelming anxiety at bay is knowing that Patrick probably doesn’t give a shit about that. 

In the bathroom, Patrick points to the floor and Richie sinks down. It doesn’t feel any better the third time, to follow a wordless order in this way. Shame flares under Richie’s skin. He should say no. He should fight harder for his dignity. Except, he’s never had a whole lot of that to begin with and there’s something about Patrick that makes all of the blood pumping through Richie’s body sing like it’s performing at the opera. 

“Put your head in the toilet.”

Richie blinks. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Patrick lifts the lid and points into the bowl with the hand holding his cigarette. Inside the bowl, it’s sparkling and clean and smells overwhelmingly of disinfectant. 

“Are you fucking deaf?” Patrick smacks his head like he’s a dog who needs warning away from something dangerous. Richie looks up and Hockstetter flicks ashes in his face. 

“Head in the toilet, Tozier.” His voice is hard, like the tile under Richie’s knees. 

Richie brings his fingers up and curls them over the edge of the bowl, takes a deep breath, and sticks his head inside. He stops before his nose touches the water. His breath sends ripples over the surface. Richie feels the lid come down over his shoulders, the plastic just missing his burn. 

Behind him, he can hear Patrick moving, repositioning himself. Richie feels him kick at his feet, at his knees, to move his boot between them and rest the steel toe under Richie’s cock. He doesn’t mean to, but he jerks his hips and rubs against the hard surface, whining. 

“Get off on this, don’t touch yourself,” Patrick instructs, scooting his foot a little further forward, giving Richie a little more real estate to work with. 

So relieved he sobs, Richie cants his hips forward and smashes them back with abandon, leaning into the toilet for support, glasses slipping and falling off into the water. Above him, Patrick smokes and ashes on his back, cinders flaring bright on his skin before burning out. 

He ignores that, ignores that he likes it, and fucks himself on Patrick’s boot, doesn’t care how he looks. The release he’s chasing seems impossible; the angle is strange, the humiliation is overwhelming. It’s like he’s hitting a gopher in one of those rigged carnival games with a mallet and he keeps missing, and he knows he’s going to keep on missing, but he’s doing it anyway.

Richie cries out in frustration and almost misses the sound of Patrick’s zipper. He scrapes it down slowly, like he wants Richie to hear it, wants him to worry about what comes next, the tension mounting. Richie stops moving all together, frozen mid-thrust of his hips into the tile. 

“You have until I’m done to come, but after I’m leaving,” Patrick says. Richie nods, but doesn’t really hear him over the static fuzz blowing up in the space between his ears. He doesn’t know what Patrick means when he says that, he doesn’t know what to expect because they’re old now and he can possibly come again so soon. 

Shoulders tense, Richie moves against Patrick’s boot. He isn’t close but he wants to be so desperately that he’s tricked himself into thinking he is. His cock feels raw in his pants and if he doesn’t come soon he is going to cry again. He’s on a time frame now, one he doesn’t have the rules for and it pushes him to thrust harder, faster, rutting with abandon. His face hits the water in the toilet bowl and wets his nose, his chin, gets in his mouth.

When he feels it, when he feels Hockstetter’s piss on the back of his head, he’s sick over how relieved he feels. He grunts, pushing himself to keep moving his hips despite the smell, tangy and acidic. It’s warm, splashing behind his ears and running into the bowl, coloring the water a pale, disgusting yellow. Richie tries to pull his face up, out of the water, but Patrick pushes on the lid and forces him back in it. 

Richie coughs, sputters, and accidentally inhales some of Patrick Hockstetter’s piss. He’s red all over in shame and the blood in his veins is magma hot and thick like sludge. Patrick keeps pissing, all over his neck, in his hair. It splashes and falls down his back, not just in the toilet, and when it runs over the cigarette burn, Richie lets out a wordless cry that only earns him the piss running down his cheeks dripping into his mouth as a reward. 

Finished pissing, Patrick tosses up the rim and pulls Richie up by his wet, filthy hair, moving his foot away from Richie’s swollen, sore cock. He flicks his cigarette in the bowl and Richie listens to it sizzle out and float next to his fallen glasses. 

“You gunna walk me to the door like a fuckin gentleman, or are you going to sit there being fucking disgusting?” Patrick asks him. Richie blinks up at him. He’s so hard. 

“I’ll be a fucking gentleman if you make me come, asshole,” Richie pants back. Talk about being a gentleman, Jesus. 

Patrick zips his pants and rolls his eyes. He checks his watch, grimaces, and says, “Fine, I’ll jerk you off by the door, but it’s got to be quick.” 

“I’m about to cream myself, dude, don’t worry.” Richie hurries to stand, unzipping his pants and pulling out his poor cock. It’s red and hard and so sensitive that touching it feels like being punched in the throat. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Hurry up, dipshit,” Patrick calls out, having left the bathroom. “And grab your glasses!” Richie’s eyes fly open and he rushes to pull his frames out of the pissy water in the toilet, hesitating over the rim for only a moment before plunging his whole hand in. 

He scurries after Hockstetter, his one hand, wet with piss, on his cock and the other on the door frame to steady himself. He’s jittery and trembling from want and and need, soaked in pee and gagging to come, screaming to come. 

He watches Patrick collect his things, the cigarettes and his lighter, before walking to the hotel room door. Richie is already there, waiting for him, fingers around the base of his cock to keep from blowing at the look of boredom on Patrick’s long face. 

Hockstetter pushes Richie’s hand away and makes a loose circle with his fist for Richie to fuck. He does, ripping in and out of that dry hole like he’s a kid again and he just learned what his dick is for. He’s going to blow any second. He looks up at Patrick, seeking something, anything, but he’s staring down at his watch.

“Jackass,” Richie says, throwing his head back. The damp hairs on the back of his head meet the skin between his shoulders and Richie feels devoured by the hand on his cock, by the fingers around it. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. There’s piss and come and beer drying on his skin, in his hair, on his glasses. The burn on his back throbs and his throat is raw, wailing every time he swallows. Every bit of him is like pulling on a loose thread in a knitted blanket, unraveling and being yanked apart. 

When he crests over the edge, Patrick shifts and catches his come in a cupped hand. Richie shakes himself apart, eyes slammed shut, falling against the wall for support. He’s dripping piss on the wallpaper, on the floor, but he doesn’t care. 

“Open your eyes,” Patrick says, and Richie does. Richie looks over and sees that Patrick has one hand on the door, filthy bandana from his pocket wrapped between him and the handle, and the other is holding Richie’s come. 

Patrick opens his fist and raises his hand. Some come seeps out between his fingers and lands on the floor, but most of it ends up on Richie’s face when Hockstetter slaps him. He holds his fingers up to Richie’s mouth after and says, “Clean it off.” 

Richie opens his mouth and laps his come off of Patrick’s hand, the come on his cheeks dripping down his face, onto his chest. His face stings from the wet slap. Hockstetter’s hand tastes like his own come and like Patrick’s piss. His toes curl in his shoes. 

When Patrick is satisfied with the job Richie’s done, he pulls his hand away and uses the bandana to wipe off the spit. He tucks it into his back pocket, tail hanging out. 

“Nice to see you, Trashmouth,” he says. He pats Richie’s other cheek, the one that isn’t covered in his own come. “This was fun.” 

“A regular laugh riot,” Richie nods, looking over Patrick’s shoulder. Out of his periphery he sees Patrick turn the knob, opening the door. He’s on the side with the hinges, so he doesn’t worry about being seen, but he suddenly doesn’t want Patrick to leave.

Like he’s reading Richie’s mind, Patrick tells him, “I’ll be seeing you again, don’t worry. I made you.” He says this like he’s reminding Richie of something, but he doesn’t know what. His memories from childhood are still fuzzy and don’t make sense unless Patrick is in them.

“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss goodbye?” Patrick asks, half in and half out the door. He’s got a shit eating grin on his face, the empty space where one of his teeth should be is calling out to Richie like a beacon. He shuffles forward and does, pressing his lips lightly to Patrick’s like he’s on his way to work in the morning and not leaving Richie covered in bodily fluids. 

Patrick pulls away, bringing a hand up to flick at one of Richie’s hard nipples. He leaves the door wide open behind him. Richie curses and pushes it closed with one hand while the other rubs at his abused nipple.

Looking around the room, he makes note of all the things he’ll need to clean before the turn down service arrives. The cigarette butts, for one, and all the piss he’s still dripping on the floor. 

He heads into the bathroom feeling lonelier than he had before Patrick showed up. Richie avoids looking at himself in the mirror while he flushes the toilet and starts the shower. 

Now that Patrick is gone, Richie can hear himself, hear the TV, and people in the surrounding rooms. Can they tell what happened? Can Steve? His room is right next to Richie’s and they weren’t exactly quiet. He has no idea what he would say, if he asked. 

Richie tries not to think, just washes off his night. He makes sure to lather and rinse his hair twice, until he can’t smell Patrick on him anymore.

He dresses in his most comfortable sleeping shirt, digging through his duffle bag for the right one. He slides it on gingerly, careful of his sore muscles and the burn, freshly hurting from his shower. He pulls on a pair of boxers at random. 

After dressing, he cleans the room, flushing the other cigarette butt, the one Patrick put out on his shoulder. He washes the wall, soaks the pee and come spots on the carpet and pats them dry. Tosses all the beers into the trash can. 

When he crawls into bed, he sleeps fitfully through the night. His throat aches, making it hard to breathe. Richie does manage to grab a few hours, waking to a knock on his door. He half hopes it’s Patrick, but it’s just Steve, looking to start their day. 

During Steve’s morning pep talk, going over the highlights of the day ahead of them, Richie checks his phone. He’s Ignoring a comment from Steve about bruising on his face, and sees a text from an unknown number. He opens it, fear and anticipation stealing his breath away. 

It says, ‘c u in cali sweetheart’ and Richie deletes the message on impulse, the sight of it short circuiting his brain and whiting out his vision. Fuck, he thinks. He’s fucked. 

Or at least, he hopes he is.


	2. One word from you and I would

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick takes Richie out on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out the new tags. This is from Patrick's POV so like, yeah. Big Warning Sign. 
> 
> I'm playing around a little with canon memory loss and Patrick's whole solipsism situation, which I feel like he still experiences on some level even though he's middle aged in this fic.

In the dark, accented by a street lamp, Patrick Hockstetter sits in the front seat of his pick-up truck. He’s smoking, elbow propped up on the sill. He’s watching Richie Tozier’s house with sharp eyes; watching which lights go on and off as he moves through his house. It’s about the time when he usually heads to bed, approximately 11 PM, because Richie Tozier is old now. Patrick supposes he’s old too, but it’s different for him. 

Unwanted memories of watching Tozier sleep start seeping in. He used to climb up onto Tozier’s neighbor’s roof and watch him toss and turn and stare at himself in the mirror hanging next to his bedroom window, making faces at himself and practicing speaking all night. He was still scrawny back then, but almost as tall as he is now. Taller than Patrick at any rate. 

Before Patrick saw him again, Tozier didn’t exist. Slowly, half faded ghosts of when he was cute and small and easy to push to the ground filter in. His eyes, magnified by giant glasses taking up too much of his face, big and shiny with tears. Patrick moves the hand that isn’t holding his cigarette to his lap, rubs his cock through his jeans. Yeah, he’d been fucking cute and breakable and Patrick doesn’t know why he didn’t smash him to pieces then. 

Patrick doesn’t know why there was a then and why there is a now with this person. He doesn’t know why he suddenly has memories, things he fabricated for this man. A gift from his subconscious? He doesn’t linger on it and instead ashes out his window and watches Tozier’s shadow move through the house. 

He’s been inside while Tozier sleeps, taking his time and mapping the layout. Patrick imagines how he looks wandering from room to room, fingers gripping door frames and brushing over expensive furniture. He leaves behind cigarette butts in his bushes and half empty glasses of water on his counters. Little reminders that he’s out here, watching. 

There’s no guarantee that Tozier has seen these gifts, or understands them for what they are if he has. He’s dense like soda bread, but he looks pretty when he’s confused. Patrick grinds down on his cock through his jeans again, shifting his hips forward in his seat to get a better angle. He thinks back to the night he found Richie again, the way his throat opened for him, the way his eyes watered when he realized Patrick had no intention of letting up. 

Patrick flicks his eyes over to Tozier’s house and sees him through the window, the outline of him illuminated by the light inside. He takes a drag of his cigarette and thinks about how easy he took that burn on his shoulder. How many burns could Patrick sear into his freckled shoulders before he cried uncle? He palms the crotch of his pants, exhaling on a hard, shuddering breath. 

It isn’t that Patrick has never had such a fun play thing. That’s not it at all. There was a girl in Connecticut who kicked him so hard in the face he lost a tooth. She was so much fun, Patrick almost hated to leave her. The girls are, usually. They fight back harder, rake their nails up his sides and grab and pull and push him around. He likes that, sometimes. He likes that most of the time. He likes it when they fight back. 

Tozier doesn’t fight back at all, didn’t fight back then anyway. He was so clumsy, so transparent, trying to sway Patrick into a blowjob and not a face fuck. It amuses him. Tozier amuses him. 

Inside the house, the massive shadow of Tozier walks from this living room to his kitchen, with its bare, front facing windows. He hunches forward, like he doesn’t want to take up space, even alone in his own home. The smallness of him delights Patrick and he slides his cigarette between his lips and holds it there while he unbuckles his pants enough to slip one of his hands inside. He hisses when his fingers hit his cock. He doesn’t grip it, just settles his cupped hand around it and refocuses on Tozier in his kitchen. 

He’s leaning against his island counter, holding a glass bottle of something clear and sloshing. Patrick can’t see that far away but he knows it’s liquor because he’s seen inside Tozier’s cabinets and he knows what he keeps in there. 

Patrick ruts up into his hand and smokes with the other, watching Richie drink from the bottle directly. The long line of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple are so enticing. He sees his hands around Tozier’s neck, wrapping them around the skin there and painting him black and blue with his fingertips and leaving behind half moons with his nails. 

Tozier is bigger than him, but he feels so much smaller. It’s so hot. All that bluff and bluster and over the top loudness but left alone, he’s meek. He’s a small person inside, hiding in a much larger package. Patrick wants to cut him open and pull that man out by his short hairs, drag him kicking and screaming into the world. He knows that guy is in there. He knows it. Tozier’s got to earn it first. 

Inside the house, Tozier is slamming the vodka back into the cabinet. The line of his shoulders is tight and his shirt catches on his back. Patrick hasn’t managed to catch a glimpse of his burn again, but he remembers pissing on it when it was pink and fresh and that’s enough for now. He imagines it through the fabric of his t-shirt, imagines the rise of it under his fingers, under the threadbare t-shirt. 

Tozier flicks off the light in his kitchen, the light in the living room. Moments later the light in his bedroom comes on and Patrick watches him close the curtains. They’re black out, so he can see the edges of light but nothing else. After five minutes the light slipping out through the space between the fabric and the window sill goes out. 

Patrick takes another drag on his cigarette and squeezes his cock. He settles in for the night, watching Tozier’s dark house while he sleeps. 

**

The first thing Patrick did when he got off the bus in LA was steal a truck. 

It was in a parking lot next to the terminal, in the reserved spaces for people who drove themselves to the bus station. He checked under the wheel well on every vehicle until he found one with a hidden spare key stuck to the metal body with a strong magnet. He opened the door and drove it out like he owned it, elbow sticking out the window, with a casual wave to the parking attendant. He sleeps in this truck, wedged in the backseat with a pillow he stole from a Walmart at his last stop before LA. He eats in it, he sleeps in it, sometimes he jerks off in it, but most importantly, he follows Tozier in it. 

He watches Richie, tails him from his big house on a hill to his job in a tall shiny building. What he does there, Patrick doesn’t really know and he definitely doesn’t care. Between the time Tozier goes to work and the time he leaves, Patrick drives out into the desert and smokes or shoots his gun at empty bottles and sometimes trees when he can find them. He doesn’t bring anyone else out because he’s saving the desert for someone special. He does fuck people in town though, girls and boys who think he might be someone famous because he’s greasy and he knows it but doesn’t do anything about it. 

He doesn’t correct them. He fucks them hard and puts them away wet, taking their wallets and purses with him when he leaves the public bathroom, back seat of their car, closet sized room in their sublet, wherever they throw down. This is how Patrick pays for cigarettes and gas. On the nights when he wanders around Tozier’s house while he’s asleep in his room, tucked around an extra pillow, he collects all of the dropped coins and pockets those too. He doesn’t spend that money. He keeps it in the cup holder next to the gear shift in his truck. 

This is how Patrick spends his days, following Tozier through his life like a shadow. He wants to know where he is, when he’s there, and for what reason. He wants to know what an average day is like, who he sees and why. During his observations, Patrick learns that the guy from the venue back East is a permanent fixture in Tozier’s life, someone who comes and goes from his house as he pleases. 

For that reason, Patrick chooses to confront Richie Tozier for the first time since their explosive reintroduction on the sidewalk outside of his office. He’s never seen that guy here, and he’s never seen Tozier speaking with anyone else here either, for that matter. He comes outside five times a day for a cigarette or to get a coffee or to lean against the side of the building, off the sidewalk, and rest with his eyes closed and soaking up the sun. He does these things alone. He’s almost always alone. 

Patrick parks his truck, black and covered in dust and dirt, next to Richie’s shiny sports car in the parking garage closest to the building where Tozier works. He scratches his key along the trunk, leaving a long white line in his wake, the sound of metal against metal ringing in his ears. He loves it, thinks about doing the same thing to Tozier’s back later. 

It’s sunny outside, but it’s always sunny here. It beats down on the top of his shaved head and his exposed shoulders. He’s been freckling under the rays, dark speckles on his pale arms and on the back of his neck, cropping up under his peeling skin. He has shirts with sleeves, but he cut them all off when he got here. It’s hot and bright and he’s nothing if not practical. He pushes sunglasses down over his eyes before he leaves the relative darkness and safety of the parking garage. 

Tozier isn’t outside, but it’s only noon. Patrick posts up where Richie usually goes to smoke, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up. The smoke in his lungs isn’t as warm as his skin in the sun and it’s an unsettling feeling. He exhales through his nose. 

He doesn’t make it through his first cigarette while waiting for Tozier, who comes around the corner before he knows it. He’s looking down at the cigarette already between his lips, one hand catching the flame of his plastic lighter and the other cupped around the end to block out the wind. 

“Smoking’s bad for you,” Patrick says and smiles when Tozier drops his lighter in shock.

“I just started,” Tozier says. 

Patrick couldn't care less but he replies, “I sold you packs of Camels when you were 15, dipshit.” 

Tozier blinks. “I stopped,” he says, “but I just started again.” 

A slow smile spreads across Patrick’s face when he sees Tozier shiver even though they’re both sweating. He licks his lips, looking up at Tozier and taking a drag on his own cigarette. He flicks it at Richie and laughs when it lands on his ugly polyester button up shirt. Tozier flinches and that makes Patrick laugh harder. 

While Richie is distracted, Patrick reaches over and steals his barely lit cigarette and puts it between his own lips and lights it with his lighter. 

“I’m going to take you out,” Patrick tells him around his cigarette. He takes a drag and blows it out into the space between them. 

“I’m at work,” Tozier says, like an idiot. 

“You were,” Patrick tells him. “And now you’re not.” 

“I can’t just leave!” His voice is high and reedy. It’s not especially sexy, but it sounds so good when he’s hurting. A thrill runs up Patrick’s spine at the thought of forcing him on his knees now, next to this busy street, or maybe in his office, in front of his co-workers. How would they take it, seeing this big guy taking him down his throat, ass gaping from his cock… It’s a nice mental image, the thought of him begging Patrick not to expose him like that, but letting him away. 

Patrick pushes away from the side of the building, out of the shade and into the light. He starts down the street, heedless of the people who are exaggeratedly walking around him and his cigarette. “Come on.” He gestures for Tozier to follow him and he does. Like a dog. 

The parking garage isn’t too far away, but it feels like a longer walk there than it had been walking away. He’s got Tozier hot on his heels now and the fact of him almost plastered to his back is heady. He wants to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and take his thick neck in his hands and burn his own cigarette into the skin under his ear. He can hear the hot sizzle of it. 

Not yet. He has plans. He’s not impulsive anymore, doesn’t just push people to knock them down when the pay off could be more explosive later. 

The cool air from the concrete parking garage feels good on Patrick’s naked, burning shoulders. He shivers just a little from the cold. 

Tozier makes a noise, a muffled gasp, when Patrick stops by his truck. He’s running the pads of his fingers against the scratch Patrick left on his expensive car. His eyebrows knit together, hands falling away from his stupid car. He looks up lightning fast, mouth opening, maybe to ask what happened, but then he catches sight of the shovel in the bed of Patrick’s truck. 

Tozier's eyes go wide behind his glasses, huge like they're about to fall out of his skull. His mouth is puckered, pinched in at the corners. Patrick follows his line of sight and smirks when he sees Tozier watching the immobile shovel in the back of Patrick's stolen pick-up truck like it's going to jump up and bite his nose off. 

"Relax, that isn't for you," Patrick says. He isn't lying, but he’s not not lying either. It's not exactly for Tozier, if he plays his cards right. If he doesn't, well. Patrick likes digging holes. 

Tozier doesn't relax. His shoulders pull together impossibly tighter, hunching in on himself like a pill bug. He can't stop looking at the shovel. There's some duct tape in there too, a length of rope. Patrick has a knife in his pocket, handle sticking out. He knows Tozier saw that too and the excitement he feels at knowing how terrified the dipshit must be is delicious. It washes him in a cool blanket of arousal, tugs at his limbs. 

"Get in the fucking truck." Patrick wrenches open the driver's side door and slams himself inside. He starts the truck, revs the engine. It's a warning. He will run over Tozier if he doesn't climb into the cab. He'll run him over again and again until he's unrecognizable. 

Patrick huffs in amusement, not quite a laugh. He flattens his mouth, lips pressed tight together, when the passenger's side door opens and Tozier slides inside. Fucking finally. Patrick guns it out of his parking space, rocketing back and then lurching forward. He drives out of the parking garage, stopping first to pay his fee with the coins he stole from Tozier's house. He pulls out and ignores a horn sounding behind him.

"Where are we going?" Tozier asks when Patrick pulls out into the street. He's cranking his window down, shoulders moving under his ugly polyester shirt. Patrick licks his lips. 

"I said, I'm taking you out," he replies. Tozier rolls his eyes and settles back into his seat, arm resting on the window sill, fingers curled around the frame. "Don't ask stupid questions," Patrick continues and pushes his sunglasses up his forehead so he can see Tozier clearly. 

He looks pale, a little sick. He has cuts on his face from shaving, little scabs Patrick wants to pick open. 

"Stop giving me stupid answers," Tozier sasses back. Patrick watches his lips move, the rough texture of his skin making his guts hot. 

A few days ago, Patrick had slunk into Tozier's house while he was at work, replaced his nice razors with a cheaper knock-off brand. They cut his face up bad, which is what he wanted. Everything is exactly the way he wants it. He licks his lips again. 

“That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble," he says finally. He turns back to the road, pushing his sunglasses back down his face. They slip a little down his sweaty nose. 

"What kind of trouble?" 

This man has a death wish, Patrick thinks. He cuts his eyes over fast, glancing at Tozier out of the corner of his eye before looking back at the road. He looks frantic, like he might throw up. Patrick feels his eyebrows fly up his forehead.

Tozier's knee bounces, bumping into the window crank. The soft _thunk_ sound grates on Patrick's nerves when he hits the crank. He reaches his hand out and smacks him over the back of the head. Tozier yelps and stops moving all together. 

"I'll sew your fucking mouth shut," Patrick says. "Don't try me." 

He expects Tozier to simmer down after that, stop moving and talking and breathing, but instead he makes a strangled sound, shifting in his seat. He's flushing, hand on his thigh clutching hard at his jeans, knuckles white. 

"Tozier," Patrick's voice is dark, taunting. "Do you want me to sew your mouth shut?"

Tozier shifts again. "Um, no?"

"You don't know? You don't know if you want me to find a needle and thread your fucking trap closed?" Patrick laughs.

"No, I mean," Tozier sounds panicked, hands coming up to wave away the notion, like if he gestures enough he can wipe the idea from Patrick's mind. "No, I don't want that!" 

Patrick rolls up to a red light and stops. He doesn't bother to look around before he launches himself across the cab, fingers reaching and cinching around Tozier's chin, dragging him forward. Patrick puckers Tozier's lips out, fingertips digging into the rough skin around his mouth. Tozier squawks, knee shooting up and knocking hard into the dashboard. 

"Hm," Patrick hums. He leans in close, tilts his face like he’s going to kiss Tozier, like he’s going to plant a tender peck on his sweet lips. He doesn’t. "Yeah, you're right. I shouldn't get rid of your best hole."

He throws Tozier back against the passenger side door. He bounces against it and grunts, rubbing at the back of his head with shaking hands. 

The light turns green. Patrick melts back into his seat, arm hanging out of his open window. He glides forward, driving down the road like nothing happened at all. 

"How do you know?" Tozier asks. His voice is shaky and when Patrick glances over, he's touching the cuts on his jaw. 

"What?"

"How do you know that's my best hole. You haven't used the other one," Tozier says this with an air of extremely forced nonchalance. Patrick, taken aback, barks out a laugh that fills the cabin and flies out their open windows. 

"If it turns out your ass is any better than your mouth, then I'll permanently close that nasty trap, how's that sound?" This is not a real question. It isn't even a threat. He's just talking. 

"Bad," Tozier mutters. He's shrinking away from Patrick, turning and staring out the window over the dash. "How long are you in town for?" he asks before Patrick can reply to the last thing he said. 

Patrick shrugs. “Depends.” 

“On what?” 

“On a lot of things,” Patrick says dismissively. Tozier sucks in a harsh breath and then doesn't let it out for a long time.

**

There’s a spot out in the middle of the desert Patrick picked out for this days ago. It’s off the road, nothing around but a dead tree and a long stretch of fence that starts way off in the distance in one direction and fades into the horizon on the other. It’s wooden, two horizontal beams between posts stuck in the ground. It’s old and prickly and it gave him a splinter the last time he was out here, leaving back against the post and drinking cheap beer from a six pack of Milwaukee’s Best. 

There are broken bottles in the roots of the tree and around some of the fence posts. He isn’t interested in cleaning up after himself. 

When he parks his stolen truck along the fence, he glances over at Tozier. He’s looking out the window, curious and concerned. 

“Are you sure you didn’t bring me out here to kill me,” Tozier asks, tilting his head to glance out of the front window. Patrick smirks. 

“I never said that,” Patrick tells him and opens the drivers’ side door. 

He doesn’t stick around to hear what Tozier says to that. He moves around the back of the truck and opens the tool box in the bed. He pulls out the gun he’s been carrying since Cincinnati nestled in the top of the box with someone else’s wrenches, checks the chamber and, satisfied, tucks it into the waistband of his pants. 

Patrick pulls his shirt over the handle and looks up. Tozier is peeking out at him from the back window, eyes wide and bright and _terrified_. Patrick’s skin feels like it’s on fire. His lips twitch. 

Tozier climbs out of the truck, tripping over his feet. He closes the door and it’s too loud. Tozier flinches at the way it rings in their ears but Patrick ignores it. He snags Tozier by the collar of his shitty button up and yanks him over to the fence. 

“Take your clothes off,” he tells him. 

“What, out here?” Tozier points up at the sky, eyes squinting up at the sun. 

“Yeah, dipshit,” Patrick says, reaching into his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. He gestures with his finger like, _hurry up_, while lighting a regular Newport, red box harsh in the blinding sunshine. 

“I’m going burn my fucking skin off, man! What the fuck?!” Tozier bellyaches. Patrick takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales out of his nose. 

“Take off your fucking clothes.” Patrick casually lifts the hem of his shirt, ashes on Tozier’s shoes. Patrick follows his eyes down to the gun tucked into the band of his boxers and quirks an eyebrow over the frames of his gas station sunglasses. He watches Tozier take in the gun, then he watches the bob of his throat when he swallows hard. 

Tozier bites his lip and then reaches one of his big hands up to the first button on his shirt. He takes it off, then his undershirt. He’s got an uneven tan, arms darker than the skin on his chest, across the bump of his belly. He’s hairy, thick carpet of it over his tits and down into the front of his jeans. His hands hover over his zipper, hesitant. 

Patrick sucks on his teeth. “Fuck, you’re stupid,” he says. “I said take off your clothes, not just your ugly shirts.”

Tozier’s face does something interesting, pinched and tight. Patrick can’t wait to fuck him up. 

With unsteady hands, Tozier unlatches his belt and pulls the leather through the metal loop. He undoes the button on his jeans and pulls down his fly. He glances up, anxious, and doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for in Patrick’s face. He steps out of his sneakers and then his socks before slipping out of his jeans. 

“Keep your underwear on,” Patrick tells him when he starts to pull off his thin cotton boxers. He isn’t really interested in Tozier’s cock. It’s thick and cut and it doesn’t interest Patrick at all right now. He has other things on his mind. 

Patrick bites the filter on his cigarette, holding it in place while he bends down to pick up Tozier’s discarded pants. He yanks out his belt, curls his fingers of one hand around the end and his other hand around the buckle and snaps the belt, testing the strength. 

“Your dad ever beat you with one of these?” Patrick asks causally. He snaps it again because he likes the sound it makes in the still desert air. 

“Um, no,” Tozier replies, voice high at the end like it’s a question, like he’s confused. 

“Hmm…” Patrick drops one end of the belt and takes a drag of his cigarette. He points with his first two fingers, cigarette stuck between them, to the nearest fence post. “Shame. Sit down over there.”

Tozier moves quick, falling to his ass and scooting up to the post, wincing when he feels the rough wood against his back. He’s sitting with his legs folded, the dark hair on his legs contrasting harshly against the bleach pale of his meaty thighs. Patrick licks his lips and moves forward. 

He holds his cigarette out, shaking his hand in Tozier’s face, and Tozier reaches out and takes it. He handles Patrick’s smoldering cigarette delicately between his thick fingers, heavy lidded cow eyes blinking up at Patrick with a silent question that he refuses to answer. Instead, he pushes Tozier’s head back against the fence post and threads his belt around the back. Patrick cinches it tight under Tozier’s chin, ignoring the pained whine that escapes weakly from his throat. He moves the buckle to the back of the post, where Tozier can’t reach it. 

Patrick takes his cigarette back and takes a drag. He pushes his sunglasses up his forehead. 

Tozier’s got both of his hands at the belt around his neck. His fingers are picking under the black leather, knuckles against his Adam’s apple, elbows in the air. He tries to undo the buckle, struggling to reach it and choking himself in the process. He grunts in frustration and Patrick laughs. 

“What the fuck, Hockstetter?!” Tozier shouts. “What are you doing?” He kicks at the ground. 

“Hmm,” Patrick hums. He ashes in Tozier’s hair. “Whatever I want.” 

He puts his cigarette out on Tozier’s shoulder, next to his last burn. Two puckering circles side-by-side. He tosses the butt into Tozier’s lap. 

Patrick rubs at his heavy cock through his jeans while Tozier howls, tears welling up in his eyes. His glasses are already smudged to shit. His new burn is shining vivid next to the old one, red and hot. 

“You’re one sick fuck,” Tozier says, hiccuping and wet. 

Patrick shrugs, heel digging into his bulge in his pants. It’s dazzling, running up his spine and shooting off in his chest in bright bursts of arousal. “You love it.” 

Tozier doesn’t respond. He’s gingerly touching the inflamed skin around his burn and hissing. 

Ignoring Tozier, Patrick begins to walk along the fence. He picks up a couple of bottles, the ones he hasn’t broken already, and some half crushed cans. He lines them up along the beams on either side of Tozier’s head and one at the top of the post he’s tied to. 

“Hey, Hockstetter?” Tozier sounds nervous, hand stilling on his shoulder. His voice is breaking, wavering, music to Patrick’s ears. 

“Ayah, bud?” Patrick asks, distracted by the throb of his cock in his jeans and the precarious position of the empty glittering green bottle of Heineken on the post over Tozier’s head. He’s crouching down to adjust the bottles and tilt Tozier’s chin up so the back of his head is rested against the fence. 

“What are you doing now?” 

Patrick stands up, hears his knees crack, and walks backwards to the truck. He feels his lips stretch across his face. He takes his sunglasses off and rests them on the top of his buzzed head. He pulls the handgun out of his waistband and says, “Target practice.” 

**

Patrick is an extremely good shot. 

He pretends to be a bad one though, for a minute, shooting at the ground around Tozier. He shoots over at the tree, above Tozier’s head, angled high to miss the bottle there. At the ground. Each shot makes Tozier flinch, eyes wide and scared and making Patrick’s cock hard. 

He chants, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” and Patrick sucks on his teeth, lips curling in a mean grin.

When he’s had his fun tormenting Tozier this way, he switches it up. He begins working methodically down the fence, starting with the furthest from the middle target on the right, then the left. He moves like that, one side, then the other, working his way to the bottle sitting above Tozier’s head. 

Everytime Patrick shatters a bottle or sends a can flying backwards, Tozier recoils. He’s crying openly. He keeps covering his face, like he can hide from Patrick, but he sees everything anyway. He can always see everything. 

Patrick shoots the can to the left of the green bottle over Tozier’s head and laughs when Tozier whimpers, fingers yanking hard at the belt around his neck. The bottle over his head teeters on its perch and Patrick tuts. He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, gun heavy in his loose grip. 

“If that falls, I’m shooting it wherever it lands,” Patrick says, gesturing to the bottle over Tozier’s head. He stills instantly, hands stuck at the bond around his throat. He brings them down slowly, rests them in his lap. His cock is hard in his boxers. Patrick can see that too. 

He shoots the bottle on the right and laughs when glass shatters and lands on Tozier, catching in his chest hair, sticking to his shoulders. Shallow cuts bleed all over his large, pale body. 

Patrick lines up his last shot, the Heineken, extending his arm and closing one of his eyes dramatically. He licks his lips, savors the way Tozier’s chest is rising and falling rapidly. Patrick bites back a groan at the sight, keeps silent, and takes the shot. 

Green glass explodes out, glistening in the high noon sun. It’s beautiful, cascading down in a sparkling rain of glass over Tozier’s head. It gets stuck in his hair and cuts his cheeks, his hands and his thighs. Just before Patrick pulled the trigger, Tozier had brought his hands up quick and cupped them over his eyes, cutting up his knuckles instead. He’s red from the sun and bleeding a darker, prettier red all over. 

Patrick is almost overcome, fire burning under his skin and forcing him forward. He stalks over to Tozier and grabs his chin, forcing his head up. He taps the hot barrel of his gun against Tozier’s lips and feels a deep swell of satisfaction when Tozier opens his mouth without being asked. 

There’s glass in his eyebrows. 

Patrick slips the gun into Tozier’s mouth and slides it down his tongue. “Close your lips around it,” he says and Tozier does. He licks Patrick’s gun, seals his lips tight around the barrel and hollows his cheeks like he’s giving the piece good head, the best head. He moves back and forth over the gun and chokes when Patrick shoves it all the way back, into his throat, elbow up in the air. 

Tozier gags, wet and sticky. His face is a mess, eyes puffy and cheeks running filthy with tears and dirt and sweat and blood. The glass in his hair shakes out onto the ground, cuts on his neck bleeding into the dint of his collar bones. Patrick grips him hard by the shoulder and drags his thumb through the dripping blood, smudges it into the hollow of his throat. 

He thinks about pulling the trigger while he’s thrusting. The safety is off, Tozier would never see it coming. He toys with the idea of blowing his head off, the bullet forcing its way through the back of his head and exploding out and into the fence post. It would be fucking glorious, gushing and red sprayed all over the sand. 

Patrick’s index finger dances along the handle, dips into the cradle with the trigger. He pulls back and draws his gun out of Tozier’s mouth entirely. It’s wet with the thick spit from the back of his throat. Filthy. He wipes it off on Tozier’s chin before he cleans the rest off with the hem of his shirt. 

“Give it a little kiss, huh,” Patrick tells Tozier, who puckers his lips obediently. He gives it a close-mouthed peck, then opens his mouth and kisses the muzzle, drags his lips up and over the hole, tonguing into the opening. Patrick thinks about shooting him again, but doesn’t. Heat coils in his guts. 

After, he tosses the gun back into the tool box. He probably won’t need it now. The shovel either. It’s going better than he thought it would. 

When he turns back, Tozier is looking at him through his dirty glasses. His shoulders are drooping and his chest is pink from desire and the rest of him is red from the sun. Patrick pushes his sunglasses down his face, rests them on the bridge of his nose, and meanders back over to where Tozier is sitting, waiting, held up by the belt around his neck.

Patrick smiles to himself, shoots his hand out and cards his fingers through Tozier's sweaty hair. It flops limply back against his forehead. Tozier looks up at him, eyes heavy lidded and exhausted under his wet, smudged lenses. He licks his lips. Tozier must be parched. 

Patrick has a bottle of water in the cab, tucked away under the relative shade of the driver's seat. He thinks about grabbing it, drinking it in front of Tozier. Would he struggle against his binds, fight back for something he needs? Would he use his superior height, his weight, to try and take Patrick out, not just accept his fate out here, at Patrick's mercy and at the whim of his fickle attention span?

Ultimately, Patrick doesn't go back to his truck. He isn't thirsty. Not for water, anyway. 

He slips his fingers back into Tozier's soaking hair and yanks him forward, choking him on the belt around his throat. He makes a retching sound, like a squealing tire burning rubber on asphalt. He coughs as he adjusts to his new position, neck straining against his own leather belt. 

Tozier's throat is bleeding red, flushing everywhere the sun touches down on his soft, pale skin. He's taut and dangerously white where the belt bites into his throat. Patrick touches the skin there with his other hand, the one not twisted tight in his thinning curls. 

In a flash, Patrick is young again, watching Tozier's hair bounce while he teeters down a sad hallway, shoes squeaking against grey tile floors. His glasses were bigger then, his hair thicker and shinier. He was prettier then, sure, but Patrick is glad he waited. He didn't remember, so it was easy, but he's still glad. 

This man is sad. It's more fun now that someone else did all the work for him, breaking Tozier down to his most essential parts. He'd shake his hand, whoever did this to Tozier first, if he wasn't so sure it was Tozier himself. 

He was waiting for Patrick. He was getting himself ready for this. 

Patrick flings him back against the fence post and feels something cold and vicious settle in behind his belly at the heavy thump the back of his head makes against the thick wooden post. 

"Ow, fuck--!" Tozier exclaims. "Fuck, Hockstetter, man..." 

Patrick kicks his thigh with his boots, leaves a dusty foot print in his wake. "What?" 

"Fuck… do it again?" Tozier looks like he wants to ground to swallow him whole. Too bad for the sand and the rocks, Patrick got there first. 

He considers Tozier, the heavy bulk of him held open by the restraint at his throat. He isn't allowed to fold in on himself like he wants. Patrick can see all of the disgusting truth of him, the matted sweat damp chest hair, the curve of his belly, the scars on his knees. His cock is straining against the sweat soaked cotton of his boxer shorts and Patrick wants to make him lick it up, put his dirty panties in his mouth and suffocate him in them. 

Patrick kicks him again, this time lifting his foot high enough to kick him back by his shoulders. It's not what he wants, but it's what Patrick is willing to give him. Something he almost wants. 

Patrick opens his pants, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding the zipper down without finesse. He shoves his hand in and pulls his cock out. It’s blistering red in the blazing sun and Patrick jacks it slowly, watching Tozier squirm. He’s looking at Patrick like he’s the answer to whatever question he’s been asking himself. Patrick smirk and adds a twist of his wrist down by the flared head of his cock, thumb rubbing against the vein there. He licks his lips, slides his hand down to grip the base of his dick. 

“Do you want this?” he asks, shaking his cock in Tozier’s face. 

Tozier nods, but the belt around his neck keeps him from moving too much, digs into his Adam’s apple. Patrick can already see the bruises on his throat, the way he’s bleeding under his skin. He’s doing it to himself, stupid asshole can’t stop moving. It makes Patrick’s blood boil, that Tozier doesn’t seem to care about what happens to him. 

“I asked you a question,” he says, canting his hips forward so his cock is in Tozer’s face but not close enough to touch, even though his mouth is hanging open, tongue out and ready for him. 

“Yeah,” Tozier says around the tongue lolling out of his mouth, too fucking lazy to talk right. “I want it.” 

Patrick runs his fingers up his shaft, squeezes a bead of precome out of the slit. He watches Tozier follow the drip of it down the fat head of Patrick’s cock, tongue glistening in the sunshine. 

“Well then,” he says. “Come and get it.” 

Patrick thought for sure he would grow bored of watching Tozier choke himself, but so far no. He laughs at him and it only makes him try harder, hands reaching out for Patrick like a greedy child. He sidesteps those meaty paws and coos. 

“I don’t think you really want my cock,” Patrick says. He laughs again when Tozier starts to tear at his bonds, fingers ripping at the leather belt. He’s scratching up his skin with his nails. Patrick’s guts are on fire, watching him break himself apart for a taste of his cock. 

“I do want it,” Tozier cries. “I’m trying!” 

“Oh, I know you are. But it isn’t good enough, is it?” 

Those seem to be the magic words, because Tozier fucking loses it. He’s wriggling around on the ground, the sounds coming out of his throat are gasping, wet and desperate. He’s trying to slip out from under the belt but it keeps getting caught on his chin. His hair is scraping against the fence post and the sound of his bare feet against the dirt and gravel sings in Patrick’s ears. 

“Please,” Tozier begs. He’s crying, glasses half off his face. “Please, I want it!” 

“Since I’m such a nice guy, I’ll let you have the tip.” Patrick moves forward, pushes Tozier up right with his palm against his forehead. Tozier scoots so he’s sitting on his ass again, not half laying on the ground with his own belt serrating his chin. 

Tozier has his mouth open, eyes wide and wet and looking up at Patrick. He holds his tongue out and Patrick feels bright. He rubs the head of his cock against Tozier’s cheek, under his nose. Tozier’s tongue follows his dick, manages to touch it a couple of times and he looks so goddamn stupid doing it that it stokes the fire raging in Patrick’s insides. He laughs and drags the head of his cock under Tozier’s top lip, bulging it out, teeth hard against his slit. 

Patrick sets just the tip, leaking precome, on Tozier’s tongue. When he looks down, Tozier’s a vision, drenched in sweat and want. He’s touching himself through his boxers, but Patrick doesn’t care. Why should he? Tozier can come as much as he wants. Patrick isn’t going to stop until he gets what he wants anyway. Tozier can strip his cock raw for all he cares. 

Tozier moans and it vibrates his tongue against Patrick’s cock. 

It feels pretty good. Patrick thinks it might be nice to feel it again so he says, “You’re so fucking bad at this.” 

It has the desired result.

The sounds coming from Tozier are pathetic mewling whimpers that set Patrick’s teeth on edge, but they feel good on his cock, Tozier’s tongue wriggling around under the sensitive head of his prick. Patrick strokes himself nearer to the base and feels a tightening under his belly. He grips there and jerks so the fat head of his cock bounces on Tozier’s tongue, wet slaps drowning out his bitchy moans.

“I can’t believe this makes you hard, you fucking psycho,” Patrick chides. He playfully kicks his foot out, tip of his toe hitting Tozier’s dick. His cheeks flush and he ducks away, wincing. His hips shift up, seeking more friction, something to grind against harder than the thin cotton of his shorts. 

Patrick has an idea. He sucks on his teeth and reaches around to undo the belt. Tozier sags forward, a marionette with its strings cut. Patrick grunts in annoyance and gestures for Tozier to stand. When he doesn’t, Patrick reaches down and pulls him up by his hair, forcing him to his feet or have his hair yanked out of his scalp. He stands up then, since he doesn’t have a choice. 

Not that any of this is a choice, really. 

Tozier is hunched to the side, since Patrick refuses to bring his hand up any higher in the air and Tozier is taller than he is by at least three inches, maybe four. His hair is filthy in his fingers. 

With a sick thrill, Patrick pushes Tozier into the post, heedless of the glass on the ground and his bare, bleeding feet. He bends down and picks Tozier’s belt back up off the ground and snaps it in the air, the sound of it ringing in his ears. 

“Hockstetter,” Tozier starts, eyes huge and scared again. The emotional whiplash doesn’t make his cock any less hard, any less embarrassingly leaking all over his boxers. 

“Patrick,” he tries again when Patrick doesn’t respond. He lets the end of the belt fall out of his hand and onto the ground. He still doesn’t reply, just stalks forward, dick still hard, half standing to attention in the sun. 

Patrick spins Tozier bodily around, pressing his chest to Tozier’s burning back and shoving him against the sharp grain of the fence. Tozier grunts, but doesn’t try to get away. He hisses when Patrick yanks his boxers down to the ground, his bare ass blindingly white in contrast the the sunburn blooming all over.

“Get your leg up here,” Patrick tells him while gripping his right leg and hoisting it up into the air. Tozier scrambles to keep his balance, hands grasping desperately against the splintered fence, falling forward. 

Patrick holds him in place with the weight of his own body, Tozier’s flat ass rutting back against his cock unintentionally. He doesn’t let it distract him though. Patrick holds Tozier’s leg in a vice grip, fingers digging hard into his hairy calf. He wraps the belt around his leg and the top post running lengthwise. He slides the leather through the metal buckle and ties him into place tight at his ankle, where he’s the smallest. He can’t wriggle himself out of his binds that way. 

A well of satisfaction grows in Patrick’s guts. He backs away, hands on his hips to admire his work. 

Tozier is up on his tiptoes, trying to keep from losing his balance. The weight of him rattles the fence, wood creaking dangerously. Patrick reaches out and runs his hands roughly over the small of Tozier’s back, rubbing hard at his sunburn and smirking when he lets out a pained groan. He digs his thumb into the burn on Tozier’s shoulder. He yells and it echoes out over the still desert landscape. 

“This is going to be fun,” Patrick says, pinching the skin over his hips, watching it go white and then bright red. 

“What is?” Tozier asks. He sounds nervous, is breathing hard. 

Patrick hocks deep in his throat, low and gross like he’s seventeen again and terrorizing a nerd in the hallways. He rips open Tozier’s ass cheeks and spit it out between them, mucus oozing over his sweet hole. Patrick ignores the disgruntled sounds spilling out of Tozier’s mouth and digs his index finger into his asshole. 

It’s a tight fit, but not as tight as he expects. Patrick tuts and shoves a second finger in, his spindly middle finger. “Fucking slut. Who fucked you last, huh? How many guys are in this asshole?” He spreads his fingers apart and stretches Tozier’s hole, crooks his fingers, looking for Tozier’s prostate. He crushes the heel of his hand against Tozier’s ass and laughs when he grinds Tozier’s cock into the fence. 

“Fuck,” Tozier breathes, “Fuck that hurts.”

“You didn’t answer my question, stupid,” Patrick reminds him, holding open his hole and spitting inside, watches his saliva drool out. 

“Um, Steve I think,” Tozier says, but he chokes when Patrick crooks his fingers just right and presses hard against his prostate.

“Short guy, the one from the venue?” Patrick is looking for confirmation, but Steve’s got to be the name of the guy who goes to visit Tozier’s house. He’s the only visitor. 

“Yeah, he’s my manager. We’ve been seeing each other again. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but it’s not like I have a lot of options, you know?” Tozier is babbling, but that’s okay. Patrick reaches up and slaps a hand over his mouth, closing his nostrils with his thumb and his index finger. 

Patrick starts to finger fuck Tozier in earnest now, putting his elbow into it. They’re making the fence sway and Patrick thinks about going to get the gun, about using that to fuck Tozier instead of his fingers. He doesn’t. He smashes Tozier’s hole and lets him breathe when he feels like it. The sound of Tozier's heavy, desperate inhales, the flutter of his pained whimpers whenever his hard cock rubs against splintering wood, spur Patrick on. Makes him hard. 

It does get boring, once he’s used to Tozier’s noises, the way his asshole looks stretched around Patrick’s fingers. He casts his eyes around for inspiration, something to make this just that much more fun for him. 

Something green and glittering catches his attention. 

With a vicious smirk, Patrick picks up the broken Heineken bottle and replaces his fingers with the smooth neck of it. The jagged glass sticking out of Tozier’s hole makes Patrick smile.

“What is that?” Tozier sounds panicked and Patrick doesn’t answer. He slaps his hand back over Tozier’s mouth, uses his other hand to spin the bottle around, careful not to cut himself on the glass. It moves easily in the gross wet slime from Patrick’s loogie. He pushes on the bottle so it gapes open Tozier’s hole and spits in it again. His sunglasses fall down his nose. He pushes them back up with spit slick fingers. 

“I could fuck you with whatever I wanted and there isn’t a fucking thing you could do about it, huh?” Patrick says. He doesn’t expect an answer, his hand is still clapped over Tozier’s lips, nails digging into his cheeks. 

Patrick fucks the broken bottle in, thinks about breaking it in his asshole. He feels fire erupt behind his cock, spread rapidly up his chest and explode like fireworks behind his eyes at the thought. He groans, full throated, but doesn’t do it. A herculean effort on his part. 

“I’m going to tear you open,” Patrick promises. Tozier hums against his sweaty hand, mouth open and wet against his fingers. Patrick slips them inside instead, all four fingers yanking his head to the side. 

“I’ve had bigger cocks in this hen house,” Tozier says, almost like he can’t help himself. It’s slurred around Patrick’s fingers, but he can still make out the words. He shifts the bottle, angles the sharp glass away from himself. Lines his cock up with Tozier’s hole.

“That’s not what I meant,” Patrick warns and then thrusts in. 

Tozier is so tight and when he hisses in pain Patrick jerks him back on his cock so he yells, spit coating Patrick’s fingers. He wrinkles his nose and pulls his fingers from Tozier’s mouth, wipes them off on his face. Patrick fits his fingers around Tozier’s Adam’s apple, his bruised neck, and fucks in, holding the bottle in place with his other hand. 

He can’t get a good angle like this, sharing Tozier’s battered asshole and trying not to cut up his midsection but the sight of it is better than just fucking him would have been. The sound of him panting and moaning on Patrick’s cock, the way he’s trying to hold himself upright and touch his aching and neglected prick. It’s pathetic and hot and Patrick squeezes his throat harder to make up for the burning under his skin. 

“I’m gunna come,” Tozier groans, jerking his hips frantically, humping back on Patrick’s cock. He almost loses his grip on the broken bottle, with his sweaty fingers and Tozier flailing like an epileptic. 

“I don’t give a shit,” Patrick says. 

Tozier comes all over the fence, in the sand and across the glass littering the dirt. He flops forward, almost dislocating his leg, hanging over the fence post, folded in half. 

Patrick ditches the bottle, tosses it over Tozier’s body so it hands in his come, clatters hard on the pebbles and the glass. Patrick shivers when he hears Tozier’s horrified intake of breath, when he realizes what happened. What was inside of him. 

It’s not fun to fuck him like this anymore. He’s close anyway, the prolonged torture of his childhood crush bringing him closer and closer to the edge all afternoon. Patrick runs his empty hand up the burnt expanse of Tozier’s back and slaps him hard on the shoulders, one blade at a time. Tozier yelps, howling in pain. 

Patrick smiles and pulls out, too fast so that hurts too. He rushes and undoes the belt at Tozier’s ankle so he doesn’t have time to get his footing before falling to the ground in a sweaty heap. He has his own come caught in his pubic hair, chest heaving.

From the dirt, Tozier looks up at him with shining eyes. Patrick sinks his fingers into the hair at the back of Tozier’s head. He doesn’t give him any more warning than that before he bullies his cock into the slick heat of Tozier’s throat, already spasming and choking and constricting. It’s so tight, squeezing Patrick so good. 

Patrick was right. Tozier’s mouth is his best hole.

Tozier thrashes, his arms flapping. His hands smacking at the dirt, at the glass in the rocks, and against Patrick’s legs. Every slap on Patrick’s thighs drives his cock in deeper, further into that hot grip, until Tozier’s nose is crushed against the hair under Patrick’s belly button. 

Patrick hits the back of Tozier’s head, forcing himself impossibly deeper into Tozier’s throat. He groans from somewhere low and cavernous in his chest when Tozier retches, mucus thick spit globbing all over Patrick’s hard cock. It gets tangled in his pubic hair. He reaches around and plugs up Tozier’s nose with his index and middle fingers, one in each nostril, shoved up and pulling back, making him look even stupider than usual. 

Tozier is turning an obscene red, eyes that were shut tight against his assault are wide and white. He’s starting to tinge purple along the curve of his cheekbones, under the crooked frames of his glasses. He’s stopped fighting back. His fingers are tangled in Patrick’s shirt, tugging at him. It’s hard to tell if he’s dragging him closer or pushing him away. He could die like this.

Patrick is _glowing_. 

He rips himself out of Tozier’s throat, then out of his mouth. He flings him away, sprawling out into the dirt. He’s coughing, retching, spitting up in the glass between his knees. He’s disgusting. 

“You’re disgusting,” Patrick tells him. He has his hand on his cock, rubbing his thumb over his slit. He feels a bead of sweat roll down his spine. “Say it back to me. Tell me you’re disgusting.” 

Patrick thinks maybe if they were young still and Tozier was still that boy he pushed into lockers and down the stairs, he might have said, _Okay, you’re disgusting,_ or maybe, _I know you are, but what am I?_

This Tozier looks up at Patrick, shoulders slumped, legs held open like butterfly wings. His face is moulton, red and purple and white, and his cheeks are filthy with precome and spittle, lips glistening in the blinding sunshine. Tozier’s eyes are wet, lashes clumped together. Eyes squeezing shut he says, “I am disgusting.” 

“You sure are,” Patrick confirms. He holds his cock in Tozier’s face, at mouth height, and jerks away when he tries to reach out for it. His tongue lolls against his spit soaked chin and Patrick laughs. 

He angles his hips and slaps his cock across Tozier’s cheek, knocks his glasses askew. “Such a fucking idiot,” Patrick says under his breath. He whacks him with his cock again. Tozier tries to get it in his mouth. He wants it there, like maybe he thinks he can get control of the narrative, the way he tried last time. He can’t be that fucking stupid. He has to know he never will. 

He doesn’t even want it. He thinks he does, everyone thinks they do, but they don’t. 

It isn’t what Patrick wants and what Patrick wants is what everyone wants. 

He slips his cock past Tozier’s swollen lips and rockets his hips, moving shallowly in and out of his loose mouth, fucked open and sloppy. Tozier makes high, keening noises of encouragement and it pisses Patrick off, so he pinches his fingers over his nose, closing off his airway. He sucks in hard, shuddering breaths around Patrick’s cock moving in and out of Tozier’s mouth with no regard for it or the person it’s attached to. 

Tozier isn’t really a person. Tozier is a vessel for his come. A rag, a McDonald’s napkin in the back of a stolen truck, a trashcan. 

A trashmouth. 

“Tell me how much you love this,” Patrick breathes. He takes his fingers off Tozier’s nose and uses both hands to push up his eyelids, knocking his glasses clean off his face. They land with a crash on the ground. Tozier’s blue eyes, rimmed in red and damp with tears are unnaturally wide. He looks panicked, which is Patrick’s favorite. He feels heat pulling tight under his belly, a finger poised over the trigger. 

Patrick doesn’t take his cock out of Tozier’s mouth. He holds still, waiting for him to speak. When he does, it’s garbled, spit bubbling out around Patrick’s cock and dripping down to his balls, slides down Tozier’s chin. “So much,” he thinks he hears Tozier say, but it’s hard to tell. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Speak up,” Patrick says, tilting his head dramatically, digging both thumbs into Tozier’s eyebrows, making sure he can see how Patrick mocks him. He shivers, despite the hot hot heat of the desert sun, still beating down on them. 

“I love it!” Tozier yells around his cock. Patrick can’t help but thrust into his mouth when he does, his tongue moving against Patrick’s cock while screaming half formed words. It was hard to make them out, really, but Patrick knows what he meant. It’s whatever he wants it to mean. He loves it. 

Patrick comes in Tozier’s mouth without warning. He’s mid-choke and come unexpectedly shot off across his tongue doesn’t help. He’s coughing and sputtering around Patrick’s hard cock, come and spit leaking out the sides of his mouth. 

Patrick waits for the last spurts of his hot come to fire into Tozier’s mouth before he pulls out. His cock is shiny in the sunlight, spit and his own come streaked down his still hard prick. He takes his hands off Tozier’s face and frames his cock with his fingers in a diamond shape down by the root, over the thick hair there. 

If Patrick were a nice person, he might have waited for Tozier to compose himself. Might have given him time to stop coughing and drooling. Instead he says, “You made a fucking mess. I think you should clean it up, don’t you?” 

Tozier, spitting up come and saliva all over himself like some kind of gigantic baby, nods. He moves to sit up, but Patrick doesn’t let him. He kicks at his shoulder with his boot and says, “Crawl.” So Tozier does. He crawls over to Patrick on his knees, sand and glass getting stuck in his skin. 

He gets to work on Patrick’s cock immediately. Tozier licks a stripe up the underside, fingers trailing through the mess he left all over it with his sloppy mouth. He doesn’t take his time, but he does make a show out of it, battered lips pursing and eyes blinking up coquettishly, despite being a giant, hairy man nearing his middle age, wrinkles creasing the skin over his cheeks. 

When Patrick decides Tozier is done, he pushes him back with the heel of his palm on Tozier’s broad forehead. He looks like he wants to protest almost, licking his lips and catching the rest of Patrick’s come. His cock is still hard, straining against his boxers, tenting them like a kid at a sleepover. Not that Patrick had too many of those, not that he can remember anyway. He vividly remembers watching Tozier through his bedroom window though, more times than he can count, beating his little cock when he thought no one was looking, Sears catalog held open on the bed next to him. Men in swim trunks standing with their hands on their hips, plastic smiles wide on their handsome faces staring up at him. 

Laying in the dirt, muddied with wet come and sweat, prone and curled up at Patrick's feet, Tozier wimpers. It's grating, sends the wrong kind of heat up Patrick's spine and settles hot in his chest. 

"Get up," he tells him. Kicks the small of his back, leaves a shoe print on his naked skin. Tozier doesn't move, so Patrick does it again. "Get up or I'm going to cut your fucking fingers off." Patrick spits on the ground, next to Tozier's face. 

"Fuck, okay," Tozier says. He flops over, exposing his chest, hair matted with filth, to the bright sunlight. He's vividly burnt, skin flared an aggressive red. Patrick knows his own shoulders can't be much better off, the skin over the curve of his belly where his shirt was kicked up to make room for his cock. 

Patrick looks down at Tozier, thinks about cutting him open. He thinks about sinking his knife in to the hilt over the squishy flesh of his belly button, dragging it up under his chin. It would be hard, take a lot of time. He can feel the phantom ache in his muscles, how hard they would have to work to make it happen. How much blood would spill out into the dust. 

Tozier wouldn't be able to stand up if Patrick killed him now. He sighs. 

"You're lucky I like you," he tells Tozier, who is struggling to his feet. He's shaky on his legs, like his body is made from pipe cleaners and tissue paper. 

Everything about him is defeated, destroyed. He's burgundy from head to toe, dark bruises molting all over his body, skin scratched raw in spots. He's tucked in on himself. Tozier is small and Patrick feels like he could pick him up and put him in his pocket, take him out to play with whenever he gets bored. 

Patrick gets bored a lot. 

"Now what?" Tozier asks and somehow, despite it all, he almost sounds... excited for whatever comes next. Patrick picks at the skin around his thumbnail. 

"Get dressed, you're fucking disgusting." He glances up at Tozier, takes in the way his face falls. He picks at his nail again. “I’m going to take you back to work.”

Tozier nods and bends at the waist, moaning and groaning about the state of his muscles, his joints, the way every breath hurts. If Patrick were 20 again, it might get his blood pumping, his cock fattening in his jeans. As it is, it's still nice to hear. Pathetic wimpers are annoying but this agony is great. He could listen to it all day.

He's got to get Tozier back to work though. He won't be there to see it, but he knows that he’ll have to come up with excuses, figure out how to tell everyone why he skipped out in the middle of the day, why he looks like he got hit with a Mack truck. Thinking about it has something vicious clawing at his chest, makes him giddy with a horrible glee.

When Tozier has his button up on, hanging open over his soiled t-shirt, Patrick grabs him up by his collar and ignores the way he yelps in surprise. He drags him bodily over to the truck and throws him inside. "You're so lazy, Tozier. Where's your sense of urgency?" 

"I think you fucked it out of me," he replies. Patrick tilts his head to the side, considers this. He slams the passenger's side door and walks around to the driver's side. He slithers into his seat, starts the car, and then strikes out, smacking Tozier across the face. 

"Get a fucking grip," Patrick tells him, and then hits him again. Tozier is slow to react, carefully sitting back up with his shoulders bent. He's folded forward, sheltering his soft undersides. It won’t help, but Patrick lets it slide. Slow like molasses Tozier pulls his hands away from his face and they're speckled and smudged with blood. Patrick cut his lip on one of his gaudy rings, the one he got from a pawn shop in Lowell. 

"I could leave you here, if you want," Patrick says conversationally. He adjusts the thick ring on his hand, rubs the wet blood across the vacant silver eyes of the skull face under his knuckle. Tozier looks appropriately startled and Patrick feels warmth spread in his chest. 

Tozier opens his mouth to reply, something smartassed, probably, but Patrick smacks the palm of his hand against his forehead, sending up tilting backwards, swaying in his seat.

“You could call an Uber. That would be a fun, relatable story for your next special right? Like, who wouldn't relate to being a cock hungry whore left like trash in the desert?" Patrick laughs cruelly. "I mean, not me, but other sluts like you might." He touches his fingers gently to Tozier's jaw, cups it almost tenderly. 

It quiet for a second, the only sound Patrick’s steady breathing and Tozier’s more erratic cadence. Tozier blinks and smiles. "You've watched my specials?" he asks, nasally voice high and surprised. 

Patrick rolls his eyes and bats Tozier's face away from him. 

**

The drive back into town is quiet. It's almost 5:30 by the time Patrick rolls to a stop outside Tozier's office. He shifts in his seat, opens his mouth and then closes it again. 

Patrick doesn't have the patience for this. "What is it," he snaps. 

Tozier laughs, tugs at the short hairs on the back of his neck. "I was going to ask you to drop me off at my house but then I realized, I don't want you to know where I live." He smiles at Patrick, like he's in on the joke. Like there is a joke to be in on. 

Well, it is funny. But not for the reasons Tozier thinks it is. 

Patrick feels his lips pull into a facsimile of a smile, something that makes the grin on Tozier's abused face wilt. Something sharp, with teeth. 

"Yeah, wouldn't want a psycho to know where you live, huh?" Patrick asks. 

Tozier shakes his head. 

"Weird how I knew where you work," Patrick's tone is casual, blasé, "but not where you live." 

"Yeah," Tozier swallows hard. "Weird." He has his hand curled around the door handle, ready to bolt. Like he thinks he has anywhere to go.

Tozier trips out of the truck and Patrick watches him fall backwards. Tozier doesn't take his eyes off of him, like knowing what's coming next will somehow protect him from it. His cheeks are stark white in the early evening sunshine under his blistering sunburn. 

Patrick winks at him, licks his lips and smiles slow. 

"See you soon," he promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to [spookybussy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookybussy/pseuds/spookybussy) for the beta. You're a pal and I appreciate you very much.


End file.
